


Imagine Your OTP - Angst Edition

by Ruler_of_Fandoms



Category: Multi-Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Imagine your OTP, Light Angst, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruler_of_Fandoms/pseuds/Ruler_of_Fandoms
Summary: The title is pretty self-explanatory, but this book is for sadistic fans who crave to watch their OTP members sob, perish, scream, regret, etc. simply 'cause they haven't had enough feels. Requests are welcome and appreciated!





	1. Intro + Sample Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Welcome to the book, honored reader! Thanks so much for deciding to click the 'read' button, because you're definitely in for your OTP to suffer the angst you were promised. *weird laugh* Because the characters are up to you to decide—which means I have no idea of their names or gender—I will address them as "[A]" and "[B]" and use the pronouns "he," "she," and "they." 
> 
> Most 'Imagine Your OTP' books are just short prompts for the reader to do most of the thinking, but here I'll be narrating in the format of a regular story. Therefore, each chapter will be as long as a short story.
> 
> This is the first time I decided to include a sample in the introduction chapter, but it's supposed to work as a sort of teaser trailer, to provide you an idea of my writing style and ability. It also works in favor of me, since I can get a grip of your opinions (if you comment a review, that is, which I really hope you do), and see what I can do to improve myself as a writer by connecting with you readers.
> 
> The sample story is told through third person, but I will try and alternate between first and third, as well as the level of angst. It also contains the element of fantasy, and the mood won't always stay depressing although the ending is bittersweet. With that said, please sit back, relax, and enjoy the anngsstttt.

"When I die, I wanna become a star," said [A] randomly as [he/she/they] picked at a patch of grass, dying the beds of [his/her/their] fingernails dirt green. [A] wrinkled [his/her/their] nose at the the unattractive color.

[He/She/They]'d been playing with the grass ever since [he/she/they] decided [his/her/their] back ached from climbing up the hill and rolling down again, which was what [B] suggested an hour ago. Plus, the slowly darkening evening sky made it harder to see, creating entrance for the sprinkle of stars that dotted the night sky like an unkempt row of glittering freckles.

"Why?" giggled [B]. "So you can float in the sky for eternity millions of miles up in the air, doing absolutely nothing?" [He/She/They] lazily sat up from where [he/she/they]'d been laying on the ground.

[C], who'd been weaving a chain of daisies, smirked. "The way you put that makes it seem really boring."

[A] sat up too. [His/Her/Their] chubby face wrinkled into a scowl as [he/she/they] reprimanded the other two ten-year-olds. "You guys always ruin the fun."

"You know you love us," chuckled [C] as [B] made obnoxious kissing noises. [B] leaned in for a teasing peck on the cheek when [his/her/their] expression darkened as [he/she/they] noticed something.

"Did she hurt you again?" whispered [B]. [He/She/They] had always been the first one to notice any new blemishes that entered [A]'s skin. [C] followed [B]'s gaze to the tip of a deep scar poking out on [A]'s right collarbone. If [A] had lifted [his/her/their] tunic up another inch, [B]'s sharp eye would've aimlessly wandered past it.

[A]'s hands immediately fluttered over the scar. "I-It's nothing. Mother didn't even h-hit hard with that whip." [His/Her/Their] gaze darted to the bandage tightly hugging the left side of [B]'s face, meant to serve as an eyepatch. "Besides, what happened with you and your eye was way worse."

"That happened when we were five; my eye's okay now," sighed [B]. "And the rumor [D] spread about my eye being cursed only lasted a couple months. [A], you can't wait until we're fourteen and able to live in our own houses. Your lying demon of a mother's bound to continue injuring you almost every day."

[A] said nothing. [B]'s words held the saddening truth about how [A]'s mother turned into an sadistic drunkard ever since the passing of [his/her/their] father two years ago, taking her grief out on both alcohol and her child. At first the abuse started small, just a light slap on the cheek when [A]'s school grades dropped low, or [he/she/they] uttered something the slightest bit inappropriate. But it worsened over time, up to the point that [A] had to stay at the healer's four days straight the past week.

"I can't believe she managed to scrape by using the insanity plea. Someone needs to consult the village's head about this." [C] muttered. "C'mon, let's go home."

[A], [B], and [C] were extremely lucky their houses were in the same square. As they parted to say goodbye, [C] paused. "Wait, there's something I have to show you guys."

Without waiting for a response, the child touched [A]'s scar. A thin silver glow emitted around [C]'s pointer finger. When [C] pulled away, in place of the scar was nothing but tender skin.

"Whoa [C], you have magic?" cried [A] and [B] at the same time. "That's so-"

"Shh!" hissed [C]. "Don't say anything. I don't want to become a healer, cooped up in that tiny tent all day."

'That's too bad then, isn't it?" chuckled a low, sultry voice. A new hand grabbed [C] by the shoulder.

"You're coming with me," sneered the eavesdropper. Panic flashed in [C]'s eyes. [He/She/They] kicked and screamed, flailing helplessly against the village official's unfair strength. [B] and [A] reached for [C], but two pairs of firm hands held them back. It wasn't until [C] had disappeared into the Main Street, that the guards released them and walked away.

[A] and [B] looked at each other. [B] sighed and turned to leave when [A] took [his/her/their] arm. [B] winced as [A]'s nails dug into [his/her/their] skin.

"[B], you've got to promise me something," pleaded [A]. [He/She/They] gestured upwards. "That's the Gemini constellation. You ... you swear that the two of us will be together forever, just like them, right?"

"Of course." The tip of [B]'s pinky met [A]'s. "Forever and always."

* * *

[B] and [A] saw [C] less and less as time passed. During those magical moments all three managed to walk in on each other, [C] almost always held a basket of remedies and potions, only let out to run an errand. [He/She/They] couldn't chat more than five minutes without facing punishment.

The annual Fireflower Festival was coming up, though, a valuable excuse for the couple hundred villagers to party and get drunk on the most exquisite of beverages, to try out fresh, hot dishes at a ridiculously low price.

To give [A] and [B] a chance to be with [C] all night long, partying, dining, and conversing like they used to. Curse that wretched eagle-eyed officer who snuck on [C]'s powers.

When the day rolled around, [B] spotted [C] at the village hall's entrance. Traditional clothing similar to what [B] was wearing hugged [C]'s body, but—having a more sensitive immune system—[he/she/they] had to wear a cloak over it to put up with the chilly autumn air.

"Where's [A]?" [C] asked. [His/Her/Their] voice was a pitch lower than [B] remembered, having hit adolescence just like [A] and [B].

"I don't know," said [B]. "Let's check [his/her/their] home."

The walk back home was silent. [B] felt an indescribable pang of sadness at how distant [he/she/they] and [C] had grown. Now they couldn't even exchange a casual conversation. When the two arrived, [C] frowned and stopped.

"They removed the flower bed," [he/she/they] sighed. "And one of the trees. It feels so weird being back here after living at the healer's quarters the past years."

[B] nodded. "[A] is-"

A piercing shriek sliced through the air. One exchanged glance between [C] and [A] was all it took before they rushed to the house. The door was unlocked.

[A] was crumpled to the ground like a wilted flower, heaving in loud, uneven breaths. Curled in a fetal position, both of [his/her/their] crimson-stained hands clutched a newly opened cut across [his/her/their] stomach.

[C] got to work immediately. Closing [his/her/their] eyes, [he/she/they] pressed [his/her/their] glowing hands over the wound, which must have been quite serious judging by the beads of sweat pouring down [C]'s forehead, over [his/her/their] tight jaw.

"Almost done, hang on," grunted [C] through clenched teeth. "Did I forget to mention how energy-tolling this is as well? No need to thank me, [A], this isn't your fault. And ... done!"

[A] slowly sat up. A quavering smile crept across [his/her/their] face. "Thanks, guys."

"Did anything else happen?" asked [B], catching the feeling that [A] wasn't telling them something.

"N-Nothing, other than the cutting," said [A].

"[A]," [B] pressed. [He/She/They] touched [A]'s shoulder. "Tell me."

A silence settled in the air as tears met [A]'s eyes. "She ... she called me a disappointment." [He/She/They] buried [his/her/their] head in [his/her/their] arms. "And that Father w-would hate me if he were a-alive."

"Don't listen to her, that's not true," said [C].

"But it is!" yelled [A].

Memories flashed through [A]'s mind. Once again, [his/her/their] heart throbbed as [his/her/their] father's cold words rang in [his/her/their] head, continuing to penetrate [his/her/their] heart hours after he left. [A] saw the harsh disappointment that flashed in [his/her/their] father's eyes. It was there every time he bothered to look at his child.

Most of all, [A] heard silence. It shrouded [his/her/their] father like a cloak, something he wore everywhere he walked. It released no noise, yet said everything about how worthless of a child [A] was. [A] tried multiple times to get answers, demanding to know why [he/she/they] was treated this way. Still, nothing but silence.

That silence would continue to linger above [A]'s father's tombstone, mocking [A] everytime [he/she/they] passed by the cemetery.

"I tried so hard to make him happy," [A] sniffed, "but my father never smiled. He was never proud of me. And now he's gone, and I'll never get the chance to prove myself to him. I'm worthless!"

[B] and [C] jumped, [B] returning to wrap [his/her/their] arms around [A]'s shoulder and stroke [his/her/their] hair. [A]'s tears soaked through the thin fabric of [B]'s shirt, sobbing in loud, uneven breaths. [B] rubbed circles over [A]'s back until [his/her/their] breathing stabilized.

[A]'s mother never came back, and [C] left when [he/she/they] remembered [his/her/their] curfew. The two remaining thirteen-year-olds stayed there, unmoving. Every now and then, a wild thought would cross [A]'s mind, and the tears returned two seconds later. [B] would cradle [him/her/them] in [his/her/their] arms until [A] stopped crying.

[B] recalled how excited [he/she/they] had been for the festival, finally able to down alcohol and lose [himself/herself/themself] to the appeal of spellbinding music that lifted [his/her/their] feet, forcing [him/her/them] to dance until the golden dawn awoke.

But that didn't matter, now that [A] was in need of [B]. And [B] knew that from the start.

* * *

[A]'s fourteenth birthday rolled around, and [he/she/they] instantly purchased a house to share with [B]. They lived a comfortable year, before tensions rose the upcoming spring.

[B] never considered that [his/her/their] kingdom would go to war, but when conscription posters began hanging on every door and wooden post, [he/she/they] found [himself/herself/themself] gripping the handle of a gleaming rapier, clashing blades with [A].

Having held many playfights and footraces when they were little, [A] and [B]'s endurance helped them move up the ranks. When the first battle approached, [A] was ordered to lead [his/her/their] assigned company at the front lines. [B], who's specialty turned out to be archery, would command a large group of archers up in the highest tower.

That night, [B] found [A] perched on top of a fence that provided a view of the battlefield. "Whatcha thinking of?" asked [B].

"Don't know," muttered [A]. "It's just ... I can't believe we're going to war. And I know you'll be all the way up in the air, but I can't stand the idea of losing you."

"I could say the same to you," whispered [B], taking [A] by the hand.

"Exactly. That's why I wanted to tell you something." Under the silver moonlight, [B] could've sworn [he/she/they] saw a faint blush cloud [A]'s cheeks.

[B] reached up to touch [A]'s face, a soothing hot like the fireplace during winter.

"You have feelings for me, don't you?" blurted [B]. "It's okay, I ... um, I've had the same feelings toward you for the longest time ever."

"Really?" smiled [A].

When [B] nodded, a pair of soft lips met [his/her/their] own. [B] froze for two seconds, registering the kiss before returning it. [A] wrapped [his/her/their] arms around [B]'s waist, digging [his/her/their] hands under [his/her/their] new partner's shirt, exploring every inch of [B]'s back. [A] had never felt skin this smooth, this delicate. If only [he/she/they] could touch it forever. [B] ran [his/her/their] way through [A]'s hair, then pushed it aside to plant little butterfly kisses over [A]'s exposed neck. [A]'s pleasured sighs said everything. [B] continued [his/her/their] kisses down toward [A]'s collarbone.

Eventually the two pulled apart. A thin layer of rose dusted [A]'s cheeks, but [B]'s entire face was dyed crimson. [A] grinned at the sight. [B] may have been red faced and too embarrassed to speak, but [A] found that strangely attractive.

An arm chilling gust of wind danced around the newfound lovers, telling them it was time to retreat to the warmth of their shared headquarters. [B] linked arms with [A] as they slowly walked, neither in a hurry. Sleeping could wait.

* * *

[A]'s boots made little crunching noises against the dead grass that covered the battlefield. [His/Her/Their] troops followed close behind. They were to charge at the first sight of the enemy.

[A] gazed into the air, thinking of everything that couldn't have happened without [B]. [B] was the one who wiped [A]'s tears away, who made [A] feel safe in [his/her/their] arms. [B] was a hilarious partner with a sly wit and a charming voice [A] could spend hours listening to. [B] was [A]'s first kiss.

"Captain!"

[A] blinked, back to reality. A swarm of enemy troops had begun ascending the hill. [He/She/They] drew [his/her/their] sword, lifting it into the air.

"Forward!" [A] yelled. Excited cries spread among the crowd as the company charged. They had the upper hand.

[A]'s ambitious blade drew blood from [his/her/their] first opponent. The soldier fell. Barely a second passed until another sword met [A]'s face. [He/She/They] blocked it and kicked the attacker's stomach, knocking him off guard. [A] took this chance to make a stab.

Just like training, [A] told [himself/herself/themself]. This is just like training. The instructor's words echoed inside [his/her/their] head. Stab. Block. Parry. Slash.

The next few minutes were a combination of arm slicing, chest stabbing, weapon dodging, and any combination of the three.

A streak of sweat slid down [A]'s forehead. [His/Her/Their] arm had turned into rubber, and [his/her/their] sword into a thousand-pound slab of stone. [A] wondered how much longer both sides could keep this up.

[A] lifted to swing [his/her/their] sword when a sickening pain hit [his/her/their] side. In a desperate rush of adrenaline, [he/she/they] killed the attacker.

Clutching [his/her/their] wound, [A] retreated half jogging, half limping. A thin trail of blood escaped [his/her/their] lip. Beneath [his/her/their] feet, the ground twisted, lifted, stretched. [A] felt like [his/her/their] breath was being sucked out of [his/her/their] lungs.

"Need to get to [B]," [he/she/they] croaked. [A]'s feet collapsed, giving way to the earth. Taking a heaving breath, [A] struggled to stand back up. [He/She/They] stumbled a few feet before a medic carrying a stretcher spotted [him/her/them].

The next moments flashed before [A]'s eyes. [He/She/They] was carried away on a stretcher. The medics chattered in words [A] could barely understand, something about telling [A] to "Don't fall asleep" and "Breathe steadily."

They were about two meters from the healer's tent, when stars swarmed in front of [A], and the world faded to black.

* * *

The battle ended fifteen minutes later, heavy casualties on both sides. As soon as [B] caught news of [A]'s injury, [his/her/their] knees turned to jello. Somehow, those jello legs carried [him/her/them] to the healer's tent at ground breaking speed.

When [he/she/they] asked to see [A], [B] was denied permission by a group of medics.

"Please," begged [B].

"I'm sorry, it's against the policy to do so," replied a medic, emotionless eyes not meeting [B]'s. "You have to understand-"

"Let [him/her/them] in," said a new voice.

The medics whipped around. "Oh, [C]," the same medic changed his voice to a sickening sweet tone. "What are you doing here?"

"I was assigned [A]," replied [C]. "Now let [B] in."

"But-"

"Now," snapped [C].

[B] doubled at the sight of [A], sucking in a breath. A long, deep slash mark covered most of [his/her/their] partner's side. Blood was still oozing, and ... was that pus forming at the edges?

[B] couldn't stand to look at [A]'s face. It looked lifeless, just a pale, emotionless mask that hid [A]'s true colors. Here, [B] saw nothing but a plain face among dozens.

"Can't you treat [A] with magic?" demanded [B] when [C] took out a basket of vials and bandages.

"It's protocol that weapon-caused wounds be treated with regular medicine. You remember how tired I was after I healed [him/her/them] using just my powers. If I did that, I'd only have the energy to treat one soldier per day." [C] replied.

"I see ..." [B] knew [he/she/they] should stop pressing, but a bitterness resided within [his/her/their] gut. "And you can't make an exception just for [A]?"

"There are many more who need to be tended to," was all [C] said.

"I understand," Swallowing, [B] pushed back a forming layer of tears. "I ... there's something I need to go do."

"Of course," The knowing look in [C]'s eyes said all.

* * *

"Hey, [B]?"

[B] perked at the sound of [A]'s voice—rough and throaty, but alive. It was the first thing that escaped [A]'s mouth, after two agonizingly silent day/night cycles that [B] spent wide awake. The truth was evident in the sodden bags under [B]'s eyelids.

"What is it, [A]?" hummed [B].

[He/She/They] ran a hand through [A]'s hair, starting deep in the roots, then working a path across all the way until [A]'s locks came to an end. They felt greasy, but sanitation was the least of [his/her/their] worries when in this simple gesture, [B] realized how desperate [his/her/their] fingers had been to reunite with [A] again.

"Look up at the night sky," [A] said. "And tell me what you see."

[B]'s gaze instantly caught hold of the cluster of stars reflected in [A]'s dim pupils. "It's the Gemini constellation, isn't it?"

"What else?" laughed [A], then winced as [he/she/they] clutched [his/her/their] chest. "... I can't believe you remembered after all these years."

"We pinky-promised on that, didn't we?" inquired [B]. "I'll never defy anything I swear upon." [His/Her/Their] arms were beginning to strain against the weight of [A]'s body, but [B] would never let go.

"[B], you're starting to tire," [A] whispered. "We can go back now."

"How do you know I'm getting tired?" laughed [B].

"When you're tired," said [A], "your limbs loosen, but don't lose their firmness. It's like you bear the pain by trying to avoid it the closest way possible, but you still deal with it. You're smart that way."

"Well look at you, you sweet little person-reading intellectual," [B] teased. "But it's okay. We can stay here as long as you want. You need some fresh air anyway, after been cooped up in the healer's place all day long."

[A] said nothing, just pressed [his/her/their] lips against the back of [B]'s neck. A warm, tingling shiver dissolved all across the veins in [B]'s body. [He/She/They]'d lost count of how many kisses [he/she/they] shared with [B], but the heart pounding, electrifying pleasence was never lost over time.

[A] started coughing. [B] lifted a foot and began [his/her/their] descent down the mossy hill, away from the evening stars. When they reached the healer's, [B] slowly lowered [his/her/their] lover until [he/she/they] heard the soft thud of [A]'s feet hitting the ground. Suddenly [A] groaned.

"What is it?" [B] asked.

"I have to take that gross medicine again," sighed [A]. "It's the bane of my existence."

[B] chuckled. "What a drama queen. Well, I'll see you tomorrow. I think you'll be released soon, in less than a week."

* * *

[B] was at the healer's hut before the sun began making its ascend across the vast skyline. No one else was awake except for [him/her/them]. The corners of [B]'s lips tilted upward into an instant smile as [he/she/they] walked over to lay [his/her/their] hand on [A]'s.

[B] screamed.

[A]'s hand was stiff, ice cold. [His/Her/Their] skin felt like rubber in [B]'s palm. [B] wasted no time in placing [his/her/their] head against [A]'s chest, pleading for a heartbeat.

There was none.

[B]'s breath hitched. The world froze for a minute, then two, then five. All [he/she/they] could do was lay motionless on [A]'s unmoving chest as a rogue tear released, carving a crooked track down [his/her/their] cheek. More tears fell, but the rest of [B] was still in denial.

[He/she/they] came to [his/her/their] senses when [he/she/they] heard the door creak open, piercing the silence. [C]'s assistant stood at the doorway balancing a tray of breakfast, eyes widening at the sight as [he/she/they] registered the scene.

"What happened?" [B] choked, leaping to [his/her/their] feet. A spontaneous array of black spots clouded [his/her/their] vision at the sudden movement, joined by a thick wave of tears threatening to spill over [his/her/their] eyelids.

[C]'s assistant knelt at the foot of the bed, checking [A]'s wrist for its nonexistent pulse. "I ... I don't k-know, everything was going fine yesterday. [A] took [his/her/their] meds, went to sleep on time ..." The assistant shook [his/her/their] head as [B] sprinted out.

Heart thrashing, feet flying above the ground, [B] reached [C]'s door in record-breaking time. [His/Her/Their] fist released an enfilade of vicious knocks on the wooden surface, loud enough [B] didn't realize [C] had answered until [he/she/they] opened the door.

"For God's sake, what is it?" mumbled [C]. "It's only-" [He/She/They] checked [his/her/their] watch. "Six in the morning. What's so impor-"

[C] was cut off as [B] reached up, snatching [C]'s collar. [His/Her/Their] knuckles were a deathly white. The frenzied look in [B]'s red eyes sent chills down [C]'s spine. Suddenly [C] couldn't feel [his/her/their] heartbeat.

"[A] is gone," [B] hissed. A shuddering breath escaped [his/her/their] throat, followed by another. When [B] regained [himself/herself/themself], [he/she/they] whispered, "And you were in charge of [A]."

[C] struggled to pry [B]'s trembling hands off [his/her/their] neck. "C-calm down, [B]. Don't p-panic so soon, there's still h-hope. I still have to do a close inspection. [A] isn't dead unless-"

"[His/Her/Their] hand is frost cold!" snapped [B]. "I put my head on [his/her/their] chest for five minutes. Five. Bloody. Minutes. There's no heartbeat." [B]'s narrowed, slit pupils pierced the wide, terrified ones of [C].

"I ... I don't ..." [C] stuttered. [He/She/They] was at a lost for words.

"What other proof do you need?!" [B] yelled. "You-" The words spewed out of [his/her/their] mouth, harsh and uncontrolled and furious. "You murderer!"

[B]'s fist flew at [C]'s jaw. [C] stumbled back, reaching to cradle [his/her/their] face. [His/Her/Their] other hand weakly shielded [himself/herself/themself] from another attack.

The strategy didn't work. [B] kicked at where [he/she/they] thought [C]'s shin was. [C] fell over with a muffled groan. Foot on [his/her/their] chest, [B] landed a flurry of punches across [C]'s face.

[C]'s pleas for help were unheard; nobody came to help [him/her/them]. [B]'s agonized screams had made sure of that.

* * *

A pleasant late spring breeze blew against [B]'s cheek. [He/She/They] softly grinned. Maybe this was [A]'s spirit planting a kiss? [B] certainly found it comforting to think of it that way.

The warrior's soft footsteps made little pat pat sounds as [he/she/they] ascended the hill. Thousands of stars were strewn across the deep blue night sky, but [B]'s gaze stopped at the one cluster [he/she/they] was looking for.

"Gemini," whispered [B]. [His/Her/Their] neck ached from gazing at the night sky so long, but [B] didn't care. "[A], our special constellation is out again. It's been a couple months, but I've been getting better. I miss you though. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night sobbing."

The downhill stream seemed to sing to [him/her/them] in reply.

[B] smiled wistfully. "[C]'s forgiven me, and vice versa. We're super close friends again, just like you'd want it to be. It's getting late and all, but I still want to sit out here five more minutes, okay with you?"

[A]'s answer was immediate. A warm breeze that blew against [B]'s other cheek was all it took for [him/her/then] to chuckle and lay down on the soft, welcoming grass. [B] was swept under a kaleidoscope of memories, of all the times they sat here as children, chatting up a thunderstorm of naivety before the terrors of adulthood and war struck.

[B] wondered if it was possible to recreate those precious moments again. The future gave no promises, but [he/she/they] could certainly try.


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much to those who read my sample chapter! This whole book is actually for me to prepare for a contest I plan on entering, so I'm trying to improve myself while I can. Therefore as I write more, you might notice slight changes in my previous chapters due to editing.

[A]'s POV:

It was at the start of bitter, harsh-weathered January when I first held love's hand, props to my younger sibling. Or rather the tray of cookies [he/she/they] baked.

Disgusted with seeing me slave over my job "all day," [he/she/they]'d slammed [his/her/their] pudgy hand on the kitchen table and decreed it her personal mission to get a new friend at the park. At least that's what I think [he/she/they] said. My bedroom door is closed, so her voice is slightly muffled.

I shrug off what [C] said and keep reading. A minute later, my unfortunate door receives an enfilade of furious knocks—read: punches. Since [C] can't endure pain for life, [he/she/they] retreats with sore knuckles before returning, secret weapon in [his/her/their] hands.

Soon, the fragrance of irresistable fresh chocolate chip cookies swims under the space under my door and into my nostrils. I take a deep breath.

It's okay, [A], I tell myself. You got this. [He/She/They]'ll back off soon, goddammit.

"You want the cookies or not?" asks [C], voice sickly sweet. [He/She/They] knows I won't win this battle; I've never won before.

Thirty seconds later finds me slumped over the dinner table, mouth filled with cookie. Nobody can pass a chance against [C]'s wicked baking skills. [His/Her/Their] eight birthday just passed, but I trust [him/her/them] in the kitchen more than anyone. 

Including myself. I should know, since nine-year-old me almost turned my parents' kitchen into the pits of hell. If being grounded wasn't enough, a slap on the cheek from my mother served as extra punishment. With that slap, she granted me the power to randomly wake up in the middle of the night, hand covering my cheek as I struggle to find my breath. 

"So ... what did you want to talk about?" I ask, just to clarify.

"Like I said ..." I swear, that triumphant smirk will be tattoeoed across [his/her/their] face the rest of the day. "I wanna to go to the park ... the big one with swings." [C] adds the last part, believing I'm not smart enough to memorize the park [he/she/they] always drags me to after school.

"Out in the freezing cold? Are you desperate to find your kiddie girlfriend again?" I tease. [C] may take advantage of my weakness for baked goods, but I know [his/her/theirs], too.

A deep crimson absorbs [his/her/their] cheeks. It dissipates two seconds later. "No. I just want a new friend. You're too boring."

"Too boring?" I chuckle. "Didn't I play with you the entire morning?"

"But you spent a million gajillion minutes more on your work," pouts [C].

Oh, boy. This again.

"[C], sweetie," I say calmly, taking [his/her/their] hand. "I need to work so we can stay in our house. And so you'll always have the stuff to bake food. If you run out of ingredients, you can't get me to do anything, right?"

A quiet minute passes as [He/She/They] works out what I said inside [his/her/their] mind. Apparently inflating [his/her/their] cheeks like a pufferfish is necessary to help [him/her/them] think.

"Okay. I get it. Can we go to the park now?" [he/she/they] pleads.

Oh, and another weakness of mine: Puppy eyes. [C] makes the face, and my coat is on five seconds later. Another five seconds pass before we're in the elevator.

We arrive in the midst of World War III. Children bundled in scarves twice their height fling snowballs at each other like their lives depend on it. Plans are made, alliances are broken. It's total chaos out here.

With an eardrum splitting war cry, [C] joins the insane madness. I wander to a bench on the side and sit there, phone out. Memes are the only thing that can save me from boredom now, seeing I've been to this place almost everyday.

A slight strain tugs at my eyeballs so I put my phone away. I close my eyes, allowing my sense of hearing to explore beyond to the boundaries of whirring snowballs. My ears pick up an unfamiliar melody. It's nothing like the humdrum '90s classics overplayed on the radio, then ditched until the next January rolls around.

Electric guitar instrumental guiding my steps, I walk until I melt into the thick circle crowding around the talented musician. Most people wear a possessed expression, eyes nailed to the singer like [he/she/they]'s a diamond ring found on the streets, watching every move [he/she/they] makes.

When the song finishes, the clapping seems to have no end. Dollar bills fly at the singer's suitcase until it overflows, and the people leave at last. It's finally my turn to compliment the musician, but [he/she/they] is gone, dispersed into one of the many heavy coated, pink nosed pedestrians around me.

A wave of disappointment swallows my chest. I find [C], shaking snow out of [his/her/their] hoodie. "C'mon, off to Starbucks we go!" Maybe it'll feel better if I mope over a cream-filled coffee.

Unfortunately, I'll need to spend a couple minutes waiting in the long line before I can get my special moping coffee. When there's only three people in front of me, I stop browsing Tumblr on my phone and prepare my order inside my head.

That's when my heart skips a beat. Standing in front of me is no one other than the talented street musician. I've never seen [his/her/their] face, but I'm face-to-face with a snow covered guitar case. Who else could it be?

Now it's [his/her/their] turn to order. Voice slightly worn from singing, [he/she/they] orders a frappuccino.

"That's 5.25," says the barista.

My hand snakes out in front of me and slams the money on the desk. "Consider it done," I say, then place my own orders.

The musician whips around. I finally get a close-up on [his/her/their] face—Eyes wide, cheeks pink, lips slightly open. "N-No, there's no need-"

"It's my treat." I wonder where this sudden spur of confidence came from, but as someone who acts on instinct I don't question it.

"Thank you," [he/she/they] smiles. "But why ..."

[He/She/They] doesn't need to finish the rest of [his/her/their] question; I understand right away. Now it's my turn to blush.

"It's just ... your performance was awesome," I blurt. "So emotional, so wicked, you had your audience under a spell, practically. I sort of wanted to congratulate you personally, but you left and what do you know? We end up at the same place. So ..."

[He/She/They] nods, then holds out [his/her/their] hand. "My name's [B]. You want to grab a table and chat?"

Oh, boy. My current scenario is arguably comparable to your typical cheesy rom-com.

"Sure," I smile. "My name is [A], by the-"

"Ahem." We turn in the direction of the new voice. The barista gives us the stink eye, gesturing to my two drinks. 

"Oh!" I sputter, and [B] chuckles. "I'm so sorry!" I quickly pay and grab the beverages, handing [C] [his/her/their] drink. [C]'s picked a bench by the window to spend [his/her/their] time, perfectly fine alone.

[B] looks around. "Where do you want to sit?"

"I dunno, where do you want to sit?" I ask.

"It's up to you."

"Nah, you can choose."

"No, after you!"

Deciding this conversation would continue hours on end if we don't stop, I lead [B] to a secluded spot in the corner.

"Seriously, though, what's the name of the song your played?" I say once we've settled in our seats.

The blush across [his/her/their] cheeks returns. "It's an original song. I actually haven't come up with a title, but my regular audience usually recognizes it because it's the only one I wrote myself."

"That's so cool!" My heart tugs when I remember how much I detested music class in elementary school. "Is performing in the streets your profession, or do you do it as a part time to raise extra money?"

"Sort of," [he/she/they] answers. "The latter, I mean."

"Oh?" I say, unintentionally looking [him/her/them] up and down. Alert eyes, excellent posture, healthy face. I'm not one to judge from first appearances, but [B] doesn't seem like [his/her/their] living circumstances are bad at all. "What's it for?"

[His/Her/Their] eyes drift the other direction, cheeks growing red the third time. "It's for a friend," [he/she/they] mumbles, voice near to inaudible. "She has cancer."

My heart sinks. Suddenly it's really warm. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's okay." A tight smile tugs at [his/her/their] lips. "I specifically wrote that song for her, and I wanted to make it all angry and loud to show that she's still fighting."

"You're an amazing friend," I say softly. 

"Thanks."

We're at the point where no one knows what to say. The air becomes dense with awkwardness, so I rise and readjust the collar of my coat. "I should get going. Want to exchange numbers?"

"Of course."

I hand my phone to [him/her/them]. We exchange phones and trade contact info.

"You know, that was a really bad idea," sighs [B].

My heart sinks. "Why?"

[He/She/They] winks. "'Cause now I'm gonna spam you twenty-four/seven." [B] cackles. "You shall wake up to hear your phone go ding-ding-ding at three AM and find our chat full of obnoxious dad jokes, fan theories, and annoying songs!"

I smirk. "Not if I spam you first with illegal memes."

I almost suspect [B] is psychic, because my phone buzzes the minute I set foot on the shining tiles of my apartment floor. My excitement fades when I find out the text is from my father.

I open up to the chat and delete the text, catching the words "disappointment," "unwanted," and "brat" before they disappear. A thin layer of water forms at the back of my eyes. I don't know why I still cry everytime I see my parents' hateful messages. I should be used to it by now.

The side of my hand swipes at my eyelids, removing the tears. A loud sniff escapes my nostrils, and that's the end of my crying. I don't have time to dawdle on such petty moments; my eight-year-old sibling needs me.

Or rather at this moment, I need [C]. Having heard the sniff, a pair of light arms wrap around my waist firmly. I look down to see two round, gleaming pupils staring up into mine. 

"Was it Mom and Dad?" [he/she/they] whispers. 

"Yeah," I sigh. 

At this point I've quit lying to [C] about who's sending the texts, but [he/she/they] doesn't need to know that [he/she/they] is the reason behind those godawful messages. My father and mother were desperate to keep [C]—who they had willingly—but the judge's podium declared me [his/her/their] legal guardian at the end. 

[C]'s hug tightens. "It's gonna be okay."

God, am I thankful for precious little kids like [him/her/them], literal balls of energy and—at times—annoyance, but also love. Endless amounts of love. It's too bad life must introduce [C] to the real world later on.

[C] tilts [his/her/their] head to the side as if [he/she/they] remembered something, then releases me abruptly, sprinting toward [his/her/their] room.

My phone buzzes again, this time from—sigh of relief—[B]. 

"Wanna hang out at my place tomorrow?" I read out loud.

Thumbs flying at the keyboard, I reply at record-breaking speed, "Of course. What's your address?" followed by a lenny face. [B] should know I'm just joking, but I wonder how [he/she/they]'ll take it.

[He/She/They] texts [his/her/their] address. There's a lenny face at the end, too. We quickly engage in a battle of the lenny faces, each trying to outspam the other. 

It starts small, but multiplies exponentially. I send a single "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)" and [B] replies with, "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)." So I text, "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)" and [he/she/they] goes, "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)." And so on.

Our record 256 lenny faces. We could continue, but [B]'s stopped texting, a sign [he/she/they] agrees with me how if [he/she/they] sees another "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)", [he/she/they]'ll burst.

My fingers tap impatiently against the hard wooden surface of my table. For some reason, I'm wishing the day would just speed up so tomorrow rolls around.

[B]'s house is pretty much a mini mansion. Jealous creeps up the back of my spine, but I shrug it off. Our apartment is enough. What would [C] and I do in such a huge place other than waste tax money on all the extra space, anyway? 

The door slams open when my finger is inches away from the doorbell. A taller, not nearly as energetic version of [B] stands at the entrance.

"H-Hi," I say to avoid the awkward silence. "I'm [B]'s friend, here to um ... hang out with [him/her/them]."

[B]'s older sibling says nothing. So there's still awkward silence. The hairs on my arm leap up, ready to run as [he/she/they] stares me up and down. Panic tingles above the edge of my skin. Did I remember to comb my hair today? And ... holy crap, did I brush my teeth? I'm ninety-nine percent sure I did, maybe just not for two minutes like I'm supposed to-

"Come in," he mutters, unenthusiastically moving his feet to let me enter. 

I nod curtly. "Thank you." My feet make contact with the warm carpeted floor, near-frozen toes sinking in to grasp the heat. 

"Wait here." [B]'s sibling sprints upstairs. It's obvious [he/she/they]'s eager to get away from me, and I wonder if he's like this to everyone. I mean, I'm probably one of the most antisocial people in the world, but I've never seen anyone take it to the next level with an edge of such coldness.

The thundering of the staircase signals [B]'s arrival. An unexpected wave of relief overcomes me when I see [him/her/them]. I feel my gut, which I had no idea was clenched so tightly, loosen.

"C'mon up!" [B] grabs my hand, dragging me to [his/her/their] room. Just like the house, I gape at the size of [his/her/their] room. I could fit almost half my apartment here and still have space for my 5'8 manga stack to recline in a hot tub by the window.

"You've got your guitar with you," I comment, because I really have nothing to say. "Do you carry it with you everywhere?"

"Yeah," says [B]. "I didn't really, um, have any friends growing up, so making music was pretty much way more than a simple hobby."

Maybe we could've been best buds as little kids. I think wistfully. 

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, crap!" I stammer, pushing a strand of hair away from my warm face. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"It's okay!" [B] cries immediately, putting [his/her/their] hands up. "I shouldn't have ... uhh, evesdropped on your thoughts ... although," [he/she/the] says more quietly, "I'm sort of curious about what you said."

A knot forms in my throat. I push it back with a load of unecessary effort. Here I am, letting a stranger I met a day ago onto one of my deepest secrets. But I speak anyway.

"I was an accident," I murmur. "My parents couldn't afford an abortion, so they were stuck, two eighteen-year-olds raising a child on their own since both their parents had passed away. There was no one else, but my mother and father spent every night praying for any random relative to exist, so they couldhand me over without the blink of an eye."

I take a shuddering breath. A second knot assembles, but I'm just grateful no tears have appeared yet. I don't feel [B]'s hand on my arm until I look down and see it. If I wasn't in this weak state, I would've shaken it off immediately. 

The last thing I need is sympathy. It's a meaningless weapon that only deepens the wound by reinforming me about my terrible circumstances. Passively, maybe, but still hurtful like a punch to the nose.

[B] says nothing, so I continue. 

"My parents hated me. They didn't say so, just kept their anger bottled up toward this unwanted child that ate away at the time and money they were supposed to spend in college. Occasionally beating me too. They had their whole life planned out, but I came along and ruined it. Rad, isn't it?" I scoff. I wish I wasn't this bitter, but something hardens inside me, pushing me to keep talking.

"I created a hideaway from reality. Just like you. For me, it was creative writing. It had to be writing, they wouldn't waste money on crayons for me to draw, or an instrument for me to-" I stop, realizing how much of a jerk I sounded at the last part. "Sorry."

"No, don't apologize," [B] says. "You're telling the truth, it has nothing to do with me. Keep going." [He/She/They] gently drag me to [his/her/their] bed. I almost melt when I sink in on the mattress; it's like sitting on a cloud.

"Anyway," I mutter, forgetting for a second what I was previously saying, "the only thing I had access to was a simple paper and pencil. I filled hundreds of thousands of white papers with my messy kiddie handwriting. They were all part of this huge project about a page who disguised himself as a knight to seek adventure.

"I had no idea I was basing that story off my own life until the last page was written. Then, I looked back, read the whole thing. I was stunned into silence. It finally made sense why my ideas came so easily, and why I wrote graphic violence so well. I'm still writing today, but for my career."

I don't know [B]'s reaction when I finish. I can only stare at the ground, praying [he/she/they] won't kick me out of the house for unleashing such a depressing tale on [him/her/them]. It's a hella nice house.

"I ..." [B] shakes [his/her/their] head, clearly at a loss for words. "I'm just ... that really sucks, that's all. We're all fighting a hard battle. Well I mean, you've already finished yours, thankfully, but I'm still fighting mine."

"What do you mean?" 

"I— um ..." [His/Her/Their] face reddens. "I don't want to talk about it, is that okay with you? I'm sorry, you just told me something that must've been real hard to get out, and I can't even sneeze out a sentence about myself-"

"Hey," I hold up a hand. "Stop. It's okay. It was my choice to tell you. Now," my mind wanders to the TV on the wall. "Let's do something new friends who just met each other are supposed to do, kay?"

An unfamiliar smirk appears on [B]'s face. "Are you just trying to take advantage of my Netflix?"

"Something like that."

[He/She/They] chuckles. It's a pleasant sound, warm and teasing. "Alright, then. Are you into Riverdale?"

I scrunch my nose. "No."

"Thank god, neither am I. That show's frickin' overrated." [B]'s finger taps the remote control button furiously as [he/she/they] scans for content. 

"Ooh!" I say, pointing at the screen when I see a promising cover. "Let's watch Violet Evergarden!"

[B] tilts [his/her/their] head to the side. "As in the anime?" 

"Don't say 'anime' in such a condescending tone. I heard the artwork's amazing."

"Alrighty then."

Two episodes and a load of unecessary comments in, my phone buzzes. I look at the screen, catching the word 'hospital.' Panic rides up my body. I have no choice but to walk into the hallway and answer.

"Hello?" I say.

"Yes, are you [A]?" asks the caller. It's the heavy, slightly exhausted voice of a middle aged woman. 

"Yeah. What happened?"

"[A], I'm sorry to inform you that your sibling [C] has gotten into an accident. We're-"

"I'm coming right now," I interrupt, sounding an unatural combination of shaky and confident. "Tell me your address."

The lady gives me the address, and poke my head through [B]'s door, mumbling something along the lines of, "[C]ishurtandIneedtoleavethanksforthecompanybye!"

This, of course, catches nothing but [his/her/their] attention. "I'm coming with you."

[His/Her/Their] expression tells me it's no use to decline, so in two minutes we're in my car, rushing toward the hospital. I even play some catchy music on the radio to make me speed up, since I'm normally a slow driver.

The front desk lady tells us we need to wait a couple hours until we're allowed to see [C]. I sit on the bench, chin resting on my knees as I hug myself. 

[B] rests a hand on my shoulder, then excuses [himself/herself/themself] to the restroom. It's a long time—twenty minutes, I believe—before [he/she/they] returns.

"Sorry," [B] says. "I-" [He/She/They] is interrupted by a fit of coughing. When [he/she/they] is done, I spot a hint of crimson peaking at the edge of the napkin.

We inch closer to each other. The body heat we share is soothing, and I crave more with each passing second. [B] lays a head on my shoulder. It's pretty obvious [he/she/they] is comfortable getting all touchy. 

Something tells me to lean in, so I do. I wonder how it's even possible to fall asleep in this uncomfortable position, but my eyes close soon, giving in to a deep slumber. 

It's the sound of a familiar voice—brusque and condescending like I remember—that wakes me up again. I look up and freeze.

Staring at me is my mother. She flinches when I meet her eyes, like I'm an uncontrollable disease she simply can't afford to get on her fine coat and boots. 

"What are you doing here?" I demand. "[C] is legally under my care."

"And look where that got [him/her/them]," she scoffs.

"You're not any better. Do you remember the main reason the judge declared [C] would stay with me?" 

My mother pales. "That's just ..." She shakes her head in a frenzy. This sudden action reminds me of a wet dog whipping water off his body, and I'd be laughing if it weren't my mother. 

"Still matters," The right corner of my lip tilts upward, the classic victory smirk. "Why, would you want your second child to become the abusive drunk who hit [him/her/them] with a broken beer bottle, making [him/her/them] run away at night?"

"How dare you talk about my husband like that?!" she roars. 

[B] shifts in [his/her/their] seat, opening [his/her/their] eyes. It must be a bizarre scene—a furious middle-aged lady shooting glares at the triumphant twenty-three-year-old she's looming over. I'll make sure to mail [him/her/them] loads of chocolate tomorrow as an apology.

My mother's expression changes. At first glance you'd think she's smiling, but years of experience tell me a mocking jeer lies under that mask.

"Is this your partner?" she asks, all sweet and crooning. 

"No," answers [B] indifferently. I almost sag under relief; the sob story I told wasn't in vain after all. "We're just aquaintances. We met at work."

Aquaintances. Nice reply, [B]. My chest sinks at [his/her/their] words. [B] felt so much more than an aqaintance.

"I see." Losing interest, she turns back to me. "I wonder how you're going to afford the hospital bills, seeing you're getting evicted."

A shudder runs up my chest. I choke on air. "Excuse me? How would you know?" My voice is feeble. 

"I stopped by your pathetic apartment to drop [C] a get well present, and the paper was hanging on your door."

I run through my memory. Sure, the landlord's been telling me he was sick of my paying method but I still paid my rent on time. I couldn't ... there was no way ...

I scoff, shaking my head. "That's ridiculous. I'm not falling for any of your lies."

She only smiles before leaving the room. I hear her down the hallway, each echoeing footstep a knife to my heart.

I stare at the ground. The most important thing, I tell myself, is making sure [C]'s okay.

When a nurse announces I'm allowed to see [him/her/them], I immediately spring from the bench, feet flying across the floor as I arrive at the room.

[C] is awake and breathing. I shudder at the numerous wires and machines surrounding [his/her/their] bedside. If it weren't for [B]'s steady grip on my shoulder, I would've collapsed on the hard marble floor. 

"[C]!" I yell, gripping [his/her/their] hand. "Thank god! I was so scared for you. What happened when you were at your friend's house? Was it a road accident? God, I've always told you to-"

I stop. The last thing [C] needs is for me to scream about safety rules when [he/she/they] just recovered from an accident. 

"I'm so sorry, [C]," I say. "I was just worried, that's all."

[C] slowly nods. Apart from the humming of machines, I hear nothing. 

"C-Can I ask you something?" [C]'s monotone voice pierces my heart. 

I nod. "What is it?"

The words come out of [his/her/their] mouth. Time freezes. A hand flutters to my parted lips as I hear the question over and over in my head, unable to get a grip of what [C] said.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Chest pounding, I half-mumble an apology as I excuse myself to the restroom. A revolting waterfall of what used to be my lunch empties out my throat, into the open toilet seat.

I had better not see that eviction sign hanging on my doorknob.

[B]'s POV:

Hey, I punch into my phone. R U ok?

A guilty feeling washes over me. [A]'s obviously not okay. I send another text.

Me: Just know that I'm here for you, kk? 

[A] responds a minute in later.

[A]: I wasn't evicted, thank the lord. and that's sweet of u, but I'll be fine. Amnesia-ridden sibling and all

Me: Lies.

[A]: ...

Me: Would u like a hug? 

Me: U aren't allowed to say no. Give me ur address. Im coming ovr now

[A] texts [his/her/their] address, and within six and a half seconds I'm downstairs shoving on my boots. I'm about to open the door when a hand lays on top of mine, preventing me from turning the doorknob.

"[D]," I whine at my older sibling. "What is it?"

"Where are you going?" [D] asks.

"To [A]'s place."

[D] sighs, staring at me with sad eyes.

"[D], I'm twenty-three," I try and reason with [him/her/them], something I've never really been good at. "Let me out."

"No, not that!" Throwing [his/her/their] hands in the air, [he/she/they] groans. "You shouldn't be interacting with so many ... strangers ... with your health and all."

My health. God knows how many times we've held this conversation. "[D], I've only coughed blood and stuff four times these two months. I'll be fine."

[He/She/They] sighs. "Okay, fine." 

Months fly past. Soon I'm about to celebrate my twenty-fourth birthday. My boss lets us out early today, so I show up at [A]'s place at noon, cheeky grin on my face.

[A]'s door flings open. [He/She/They] raises an eyebrow at the picnic blanket dangling from my arm. "I can already guess what we're gonna do for this lunch date."

I blush at the word "date." [A] has no idea of my feelings for [him/her/them], which I'll confess if all goes to plan. 

The grass itches against my feet, but these are my favorite sandals so I suck it up like the chivalrous hero I totally am. 

[A] chomps into a sandwich, eyes widening instantly. "Thith ith da beth thandwich evr," [he/she/they] mumbles. [He/She/They] swallows. "But seriously, [B]. Tuna is awesome."

"Thanks, I made it myself," I chuckle as I sip from my Fanta can.

"You also look real pretty today," [A] says. "I wanna pet your hair; it's so shiny."

Blood rushes up my face and I whip the other direction so [A] doesn't see my blush. Next thing I know, I'll turn into an anime character with hearts for eyes. 

Before I know, we're packing up and throwing food wrappers away. I inwardly sigh. Another missed opportunity. 

[A] strolls at my side, a skipping motion in [his/her/their] gait. [He/She/They] doesn't notice the large rock in front of [him/her/them] until [his/her/their] foot collides with it, sending [him/her/them] flying.

My arms reach out to catch [A]. We land on the ground with a thud, [him/her/them] on top of me.

[A]'s face is five inches away from mine. My cheeks turn crimson. I forget how to breathe. All I can do is stare into [his/her/their] eyes. They're so large and shiny.

"So you do like me that way," says [A]. [He/She/They] chuckles. "Lucky for you, you're so adorable no one can resist your charm." [He/She/They] gets off and helps me stand up, brushing dirt of my shirt.

I'm speechless. My thoughts are something along the lines of, [A], [A], [A] likes me back, OMG, [A] ...

"By the way, thanks for catching me," [A] adds, now serious. "I've never been this happy for quite a while."

"You're ... uh, welcome," I stammar. "So, uh, we're together? I mean, you want to be together?"

"Of course- MMF!"

It takes all of [A]'s strength to not fall over again. I guess [he/she/they]'ll have to deal with my random hug attacks now that we're officially dating. And my annoying rambles. And my health problems.

But something tells me [he/she/they]'ll willingly deal with every one of my flaws.

[A]'s POV:

I realized I began enjoying visits to the park because [B]'d be there everytime. [He/She/They] strictly told me to not come today, but curiosity got the best of me. Plus, I deserve to know as [B]'s new partner.

I sit on a bench ten feet away from [B]'s regular spot, book in front of my face. At the corner of my eye, [B] raises [his/her/their] hand, ready to smash the air with a spine-chilling instrumental.

As soon as the first note starts, I'm drowning under a sea of feels. I hear determination, fury, apathy, optimism. There's pretty much every raw emotion bound together and woven into lyrics and beats. 

I don't realize I'm holding my breath until the song ends. Strangely, the crowd doesn't disperse like usual. I move to a closer bench. 

[B] leans into [his/her/their] microphone. "Guys, I have something to say and I don't know how to say it." [He/She/They] takes a deep breath. "This'll be my last performance."

Gasps echo among the audience. They raise their fists, protesting when [B] holds up a hand and they quiet down. That's how much power [he/she/they] holds among [his/her/their] fans, a mere street musician gripping [his/her/their] beloved electric guitar.

"The song I performed was an original I wrote by myself, to cope with my worries ever since my doctor told me ..."

Another silence. I inhale.

"... told me I had cancer," [B] finishes. [His/Her/Their] gaze drifts toward the ground, not meeting anyone's eyes. 

I blink. [B]? Cancer? I need a moment to register this, but the world continues on without me.

"That song represented everything I felt," said [B]. "My pain, how angry I was when I found out, how unfair this was, everything. So, um, I'd really appreciate it if you'd donate extra to help me. Please."

[He/She/They] leaves for home with a guitar case so overstuffed dollar bills are peaking out of the zipper line.

Meanwhile, I dash for the same destination using a different route. I realize that I'm running abnormally fast, and that—along with my hammering breaths—tells me how livid I really am.

[B]'s POV:

[A] is standing at the entrance of my house when I get there. Judging by [his/her/their] expression, I really messed up somehow.

"Why?" [he/she/they] shouts. "Why didn't you tell me?"

My eyes widen. "[A], please don't-"

[A] just laughs, an emotionless chuckle. "So I guess it's not your friend who has cancer, after all. It finally makes sense why your sibling [D] hated me so much."

"[A], please," I beg. "I'm so sorry-"

"What's the point?" [He/She/They] snaps. "I let you in on one of my deepest secrets, and you can't even stand to tell me about your dumb little disease-"

"IT'S NOT JUST A DUMB LITTLE DISEASE!" I scream. Turns out there was a fire inside me all along. "[A], you have no idea how many nights I spent awake scared of dying, how many hate notes I've written myself. You'd have known if you were-"

"Well, you didn't tell me!" [He/She/They] retorts.

Oh, so you're gonna play that game with me, huh? My fists unclench, then curl up again.

"I didn't need to tell you!" I yell. "If you paid attention to all those times I coughed up blood, all those headaches I had, you'd be able to tell something up with me."

"Well, you told me not to worry!"

"But you still should!" I say, exasperated. "[A], it's your place as my romantic partner to care for me. You keep talking about your intellect and stuffing the air with your so-called deep thoughts, but you also lack the decency of a normal human being!"

Silence. [A] stares at me, eyes wide and unblinking. [He/She/They] takes a step back. Then another. 

Guilt overcomes me. "Wait, [A]!" I say. "Stop! Please! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, I swear, [A]-"

"You sound just like my parents," mutters [A].

Limbs numb, knots in my throat, it's mere seconds before I become a sobbing mess. Pathetic, I tell myself as I desperately try to stop crying. I only succeed in smearing a mixture of tears and snot across my face.

"And you sound just like an intruder," snaps a new voice. "Leave."

I whip around. "[D]? No, don't, it's not [A]'s fault, it's mine-"

"Oh, don't worry, [D]," answers [A] calmly. "I'm leaving alright." [He/She/They] turns and storms away.

"No!" I scream, as [D] grabs my arm, dragging me through the door. "Let me go! I gotta apologize! Stop! It's my fault-"

I'm cut off by a rapid hammering inside my head. The ceiling spins above me, and I sink to the ground, a heap of sweat and tears.

I wake up to white sheets and pale walls. If this isn't hell itself, then I don't know what it is. 

[D] comes in. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Like hell."

[D] chuckles. "Look, [B], you got a donation of $400 overnight."

I bolt upward, ignoring the splintering pain. "Say what?"

"Here," [D] hands me [his/her/their] laptop and I open up to this random donation website.

There's a picture of me—and I'm thankful it's a decent one, not that it's easy to find decent pics of me—with a whole freaking essay below. Tears pool in my eyes when I see the first sentence. I recognize that writing style, and who else other than [A] would describe our love story so vividly? 

"Oh, god," says [D]. "You're getting emotional again." [He/She/They] grins, picking up the laptop. "I'll see you, then."

"Bye," I manage through a sob. [D] exits, and I'm back to being surrounded by the pale, silent walls. First day, and I already hate it.

[A]'s POV:

It's shocking, really. How I singlehandedly earned $400 in less than 24 hours. I can only hope [B] accepts this as a sort of apology; I won't personally hold it against [him/her/them] if [he/she/they] doesn't, though.

[C] is sprawled across the couch, book in hand. It's a copy of The Hunger Games, one of my favorites. [He/She/They]'s doing the best [he/she/they] can for someone who lost all [his/her/their] memories. It's possible [he/she/they] even regained one yesterday.

I get a text from [B].

[B]: Can u visit me tomorrow? I'm booorrrreeeeddddddd #IHateTheHospital #IFeelLikeCrapToo #PhysicallyAndMentally #I'mSorryAboutTheFight

Me: It's fine! It's my fault, I screwed up.

Me: And unfortunately, I have 2 go on a business trip tomorrow. It's apparently a big project and I'll be out for a while. we can still text tho

[B]: :(

Me: turn that frown upside down

[B]: ):

Me: >:( STAHP

[B]: fine, love you

Me: love you too

The knocking of my door sounds in the air. I get up, opening the door. 

A mask envelopes my vision. My wrists are bound together. I let out a single scream before a gag is shoved over my mouth. I kick, but the same pair of hands that tied my wrists holds me down. I recognize their feel, rough and sweaty from gripping beer bottles all day. My father yells, "Shoot [C]!"

I freeze. Then scream something, but it's inaudible against the gunshot that rings through the air.

That same gun presses against my forehead.

"Say bye-bye," is all I hear before an ear-splitting BANG! sends me into darkness.

[B]'s POV:

[A]'s business trip must really be taking a toll on [him/her/them]. [He/She/They] hasn't texted in a week, despite the memes I've been sending [him/her/them]. And they're quality memes, too.

Aside from texting, there's nothing much I can physically do. When I attempted to play my guitar yesterday, nothing came out other than a few pathetic plucks.

I stare at the ceiling. Maybe I could give the TV next to me another chance. I decide on local news, since ... actually, I have no idea. My gut just says I should watch local news.

It appears to be my lucky day, because every channel is discussing a murder investigation. I watch from the beginning.

"There has been a murder yesterday. It happened in the apartment area near Central Park. The police are currently investigating the bodies, and two people—one adult in [his/her/their] twenties and a seven to nine-year-old child—have been killed."

An unfamiliar shiver runs up my arm, but I keep watching. 

"Their names are [A] and [C], according to the front desk."

I hurl my remote at the screen. It goes black, and a few glass shards fall. I struggle to snatch my phone from the nightstand and search up the news. There it is, in the first couple sentences under the headline:

Twenty-three-year-old [A] and eight-year-old [C] have been unfortunately murdered-

I slam my phone down. The room spins around me in unfamiliar colors. The walls are caving in on me. I can't breathe.

Medics rush in, screaming something that faintly sounds like, "Stroke! [He/She/They]'s having a stroke!"

Hands hold me down, telling me to stay calm. I can't stay calm. I can't do anything. Eventually I feel myself nodding off as my consciousness slips.

It's funny, and terrifying at the same time. I hear people talking, but it's not possible to open my eyes. I'm pretty much a trapped spirit inside my own body, like some undead zombie trying to break out of its coffin.

I lose track of time. It takes heavy effort to think, but I keep seeing a charming, intelligent face I feel like I know. 

The atmosphere changes. The air is stuffier with more people, and they all whisper in hushed voices. I hear phrases like, "asleep for six months," and "dusty guitar" and "pull the plug."

"Pull the plug" seems to be an especially popular phrase. One by one, the voices clamor in sounds of agreement. There's a strong grip somewhere around me. It tightens, squeezes.

Then lets go.

And I let go with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Holy hell, that was over 6000 words. According to research, it's possible for a cancer patient to put themself in a coma through a stroke, but I apologize if my writing about is inaccurate. I'd be happy to edit if anyone wants to provide me a more realistic event. I really should be getting to bed now since I powerwrote all this and it's past ten ... comment your reviews!


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